My first impulse had been to give information to the German police of
Bethune's whereabouts, and thus cause his arrest; yet somehow I could
not bring myself to do so. Grindlay and his men would, sooner or later,
trace the fugitive; therefore I left the work to them, and returned to
London.
As I calmly contemplated the affair in all its phases I became convinced
of the strange fact that the mystery surrounding Sybil was the one pivot
upon which the whole circumstances revolved. Once I could penetrate the
veil, the motive for Sternroyd's murder would, I felt certain, become
apparent. But with tantalising contrariness, all my efforts during
these dark, anxious days had been absolutely futile. Even though I had,
on more than one occasion, to work with the care and caution of a
trained detective, I had failed to glean anything further than what my
well-beloved had told me herself at the little Pyrenean spa where first
she had brought brightness to my life.
Later events had rendered the enigma increasingly bewildering, rather
than simplifying it, and I was compelled to acknowledge myself baffled
in every attempted elucidation.
When I arrived home about eight o'clock one morning, having travelled by
the night service via Antwerp and Harwich, the industrious Saunders,
who, wearing his apron of green baize, was busy cleaning some plate,
handed me my letters, and told me that Lady Fyneshade had called on the
previous evening. She had desired to see me on some important matter,
and had expressed great disappointment at my absence. She, however,
left a message asking me to telegraph to Eaton Square the moment I
returned, and make an appointment for her to call upon me. This I did,
and about eleven o'clock the same morning she was ushered in. She was
quietly dressed in black, and her face bore unmistakable traces of a
restless night. She looked more anxious and worried than I had ever
before seen her, and as she seated herself in her armchair and raised
her veil, I felt inclined to ask her to give some explanation of her
extraordinary conduct on the occasion of her last visit. But she
allowed me no time to question her, for with a light laugh she burst
forth--
"I'm glad you're back so quickly. Your man told me you were away, and
that the date of your return was quite uncertain."
"So it was," I replied. "Very uncertain."
"You have, I suppose, been following your friend Captain Bethune?"
"How did you know that?" I asked, surprised, believing myself the only
person aware of his escape.
"I have certain sources of information that are secret," she laughed,
shrugging her shoulders.
"But you suspect him of the crime," I said. "Why, if you know his
whereabouts, have you not caused his arrest?"
"Like yourself, I have certain reasons," she answered carelessly,
readjusting one of the buttons of her glove.
"And your reason is that you fear exposure if he were placed in a
criminal's dock--eh?"
She winced visibly as my abrupt words fell upon her. "You are generous
to everyone except myself, Stuart," she observed presently, pouting like
a spoiled child. "We have known each other since children and have
always been the best of friends, yet just at the moment when I am most
in need of the aid of an honest man, even you forsake me."
"You have never rendered me any assistance whatever," I exclaimed
reproachfully. "Indeed, on the last occasion you visited me, your
companion committed a mean, despicable theft, which makes him liable to
prosecution."
"A theft!" she echoed, with unfeigned astonishment, "Of what?"
"Of certain fragments of private letters that were in my keeping," I
answered angrily, adding, "Surely it must throw discredit upon any lady
to be the associate of a thief?"
"Mr Markwick would never descend to such an action," she cried
indignantly. "I am absolutely certain that he never took your papers,
whatever they were."
"And I am equally convinced that he did," I said in as quiet a tone as I
could command. I had suspected her of complicity in the tragedy, and
her words and demeanour corroborated my worst suspicions.
"But what motive could he have to possess himself of them? Were they of
any value?"
"To me, yes. To others they were utterly worthless," I replied,
standing with my hands clasped behind me regarding her closely.
Evidently she was ill at ease, for her gloved fingers toyed nervously
with the ribbon decorating the silver handle of her sunshade and her
tiny shoe peeping from beneath her plain tailor-made skirt impatiently
tapped the carpet. "You are a strange woman, Mabel, as variable as the
wind," I added after a pause. "One day you declare that man Markwick to
be what he really is, an adventurer, while on the next you defend him as
strongly as if he were your lover."
"Lover!" she cried, her face crimsoning. "You are constantly making
reflections upon my character and endeavouring to destroy my good name."
"Remember I assert nothing," I declared. "But your extraordinary
friendship for this man must strike everyone who is aware of it as--
well, to say the least, curious." During a few moments she was silent;
then, lifting her face to me, said in faltering tones:
"I--I admit all that, Stuart. People may misjudge us as they will. It
is, unfortunately, the way of the world to play fast and loose with a
smart woman's reputation, and I have, therefore, long ago ceased to care
what lies my traducers may amuse themselves by uttering. To you I have
on a previous occasion spoken the truth of my relations with Markwick.
Can you never believe me?"
"You admit, then, that Fyneshade was justified in his notion that he is
your lover?"
"I tell you he is not my lover!" she cried fiercely. Then hoarsely she
added: "I--I fear him, it's true. I am fettered to him because--well,
truth to tell, I am powerless to rid myself of his attentions because he
has possessed himself of a great and terrible secret that is mine alone,
one that if betrayed would crush me."
I regarded her steadily. Her face was a trifle paler, and in her eyes I
thought I detected signs of tears.
"Is this really the truth, Mabel?" I asked with earnestness. She had
deceived me before, and I was determined not to accept any of her
statements without verification.
"It is the absolute truth," she declared huskily. "I swear I am unable
to treat the man as I should wish because I fear he may make known the
truth."
"Is it so serious, then? Is yours a secret of so terrible a nature that
you dare not face exposure? It is not like you, Mabel, to flinch," I
said.
"But I cannot let this man speak--I dare not."
"You do not love him?"
"I hate him, but must treat him with tact and discretion. Did I not
tell you when we met him unexpectedly at Thackwell's to beware of him?
Already I knew how he and certain accursed parasites who surround him
had misled you, and had entrapped you into an impossible marriage. I--"
"Impossible?" I echoed. "Why do you use that word? Do you insinuate
that Sybil was an impossible person?"
"Yes; when you know the truth about her it will amaze you. Indeed, were
it not for the fact that I have witnessed certain things with my own
eyes I myself would never believe the story if related to me."
"But tell me, Mabel; tell me more of her," I urged. "Ever since my
strange marriage, under circumstances of which you are apparently well
aware, I have been groping in the dark, seeking always, but finding
nothing. I have tried to penetrate the mystery of her past, but, alas!
cannot."
"Ah! that is not surprising. The precautions taken to prevent you
ascertaining the truth are indeed elaborate, every possible contingency
having been provided for."
"Do you mean that I am never to obtain the knowledge I seek; that I am
always to remain in ignorance?"
"With Markwick's sanction you will never know. He is implicated far too
deeply."
"How implicated?"
"I am not yet in possession of the whole of the facts. If I were I
should not be compelled, as I now am, to purchase his silence by risking
my own reputation. But it is for that very reason I sought you this
morning. If I dared, I would tell you all I know of Sybil; but by doing
so I should bring upon my head the exposure that I dread."
What, I wondered, was the nature of the secret which she feared Markwick
would betray? Only one solution of the problem occurred to me, and it
rooted itself firmly in my mind. The secret was none other than the
fact that she had either lured young Sternroyd to his death or had
actually fired the fatal shot herself. The thought was startling, but
her words and manner showed conclusively her guilt, and in those brief
moments, during which a silence fell between us, I told myself that two
persons must be associated in the murder of the young millionaire, and
that their names were Mabel, Countess of Fyneshade, and Captain John
Bethune.
Hers was unmistakably the face of one whose conscience was borne down by
a guilty secret, and I felt instinctively to shrink from her as next
second she stretched forth her gloved hand and laid it gently on my arm.
"I am powerless, Stuart, utterly powerless to tell you what you desire
to know about the woman who was so strangely married to you," she said.
"For reasons already explained I am forced to remain silent; but
further, I cast myself upon your generosity. I beseech you once again
to help a woman friendless among enemies, who seek her degradation and
social ruin."
"Well, what do you want?" I asked rather roughly.
"I have told you why I am compelled to still remain friendly with this
man Markwick, a person hated by both of us. He has threatened me; he
has declared that he will disclose my secret if I cannot obtain your
silence regarding that interview in the garden at Blatherwycke. To-day
I come to you to beg, nay, to pray to you to reconsider your decision."
She spoke so earnestly that I confess myself surprised.
"Upon that interview there apparently rests some very important
development," I observed, thoughtfully, after a pause. "He must have
some exceedingly strong motive if he attempts to secure secrecy by such
means. What is it?"
"I have no idea," replied the Countess, quickly. "He does not desire
that his friendship should compromise me, I suppose."
"But has it not already compromised you in the eyes of Fyneshade?" I
suggested, in a tone of suspicion.
"True; but your testimony, the word of a man of honour, will go a long
way toward dispelling whatever absurd notions my husband has got into
his head," she urged.
"His notions, viewed by the light of later events, are not altogether
surprising. To say the least, the circumstances are suspicious."
"Ah! I quite admit that. It is for that very reason I cast myself upon
your generosity and beg of your assistance. If I do not secure your
silence, he--the man who holds me in his power--will not hesitate to
denounce and crush me. Your promise may save me."
"Save you? I cannot see how," I said, mechanically, for I was thinking
of the probability that she was the actual culprit.
"Ah! you do not--you cannot, understand," she cried, impatiently. "I
would prefer death to exposure. If he betrays my secret, then I--I will
kill myself."
"Come, come," I said, sympathetically. "This is wild talk. Suicide is
mere cowardice."
"But it would avert the greater scandal. If you knew everything you
would not be surprised at my rash words, nay, you would wonder how I
have endured all this mental anguish so long, rather than yield to the
temptation of taking at one draught the contents of a tiny bottle I have
locked away in my room."
I saw that she was genuinely in earnest; she spoke with a gesture that
told me plainly she had confessed the truth. Was it that, seized by
bitter remorse at the consequences of her act, she preferred suicide to
arrest? This was but natural, I argued. She knew that if Jack Bethune
fell into the hands of the police, revelations must ensue that would
implicate her deeply, and that she would be placed in the dock beside
him. I loathed her for the vile, despicable part she had played in the
death of her young admirer, yet I felt an indescribable pity for her as
she sat trembling before me in an attitude of utter dejection, her fate
hanging upon my words.
For a brief moment I looked into her great tearful eyes, then gravely I
said--
"It is not within my province to judge you, Mabel, for I am unaware of
your offence, still, although I will never swear that Markwick was not
with you on that night, I will grant your request. I promise to assist
you in concealing the truth you wish to hide."
"And you will say I was with you?" she cried eagerly, jumping to her
feet joyfully, grasping my hand with a sudden impulse.
"I will not swear it, remember," I said. "I will, however, let it be
understood that you and I met clandestinely."
"Ah! you are a real, generous friend, Stuart," she cried, smiling
through her tears. "I knew when you had heard the truth about my misery
you would not fail to render me help. Mine has been an existence full
of wretched, hollow shams; but in future I mean to act without
duplicity, to abandon the schemes I had long ago formed, and to try and
lead a better life. To the world I am gay and happy, for am I not
acknowledged one of the smartest women in England? Yes, alas! and the
penalty for all this is an agony of mind that is torturing me hour by
hour, moment by moment, while the temptation to destroy myself allures
me until I fear that, sooner or later, I must yield."
"No, no; do nothing of the kind," I exclaimed pityingly. "Your
confession has pained me, but arm yourself against your enemies, and at
the same time count upon my friendship. If you have spoken falsely to
me--if I find that you have lied--then ask no further favour, for
assuredly I shall be your most bitter enemy, and seek to bring upon you
the punishment merited by your acts."
"Punishment!" she gasped, gazing fixedly across the room with wild,
wide-opened eyes. Her lips moved, but she was voiceless. The single
word transfixed her.
"Is it the absolute truth that you were unaware of the theft committed
in these rooms by Markwick?" I demanded, after a brief, painful pause.
"I swear I knew nothing of it," she replied frankly, without hesitation.
"He invited me to play the piano while we waited for your return, and
while my back was turned he must have abstracted them. But you will do
one thing further to appease him, won't you? You'll give me a line
assuring him of your intention not to betray his presence at
Blatherwycke?"
I hesitated. My promise was verbal, yet she desired an undertaking in
writing. This was a fresh development of the affair: there was a strong
element of suspicion in it.
She argued, coaxed and urged me until, as the only way of satisfying
her, I took a sheet of notepaper and upon it made a declaration of my
intention. Having watched me sign it, she placed it carefully in an
envelope, transferred it to her pocket, and, after a further brief
conversation, thanked me and withdrew, leaving me leaning against the
mantelshelf absorbed in thought.